Blood Rust
by niennah
Summary: Angel tells Connor how he turned Spike, but Connor realises there's a lot more to know. --S/A, 3/3 complete--
1. Angel

Title: Blood Rust  
Author: Anna  
Pairing: Spike/Angel  
Rating: NC-17 overall  
Feedback: Yes please. niannah@hotmail.com  
Distribution: SU, Soulmates, Soulless, anyone who's hosted my fics before. Anyone else, please let me know. Thank you.  
Summary: Angel tells Connor how he turned Spike, but Connor realises there is a lot more to find out.  
Author's Notes: This is an AU fic, obviously, but apart from the siring of William the Bloody I have tried not to deviate too much from the canon. It takes place in the current season of Angel, perhaps slightly into an AU future. Cordelia's status makes no difference to the fic, though she appears briefly. She has slept with Connor. Spike has gone through his madness with the First. However, no one in Sunnydale knows about Connor, and no one in LA knows about Spike's soul. Angel has not recently spent any time as Angelus. The Beast is not an immediate problem during the two nights this fic takes place.  
I hope I haven't left anything out. I think not. I'm sure it will be fairly clear anyway.  
Thanks to Lisa and Ando for betaing, you are both stars.   
___________________________________________________________________________   
  
~*~  
Part 1  
~*~  
  
Angel shut the door to his office. Connor glared.   
  
"You have other kids?"   
  
"I wouldn't really call them kids," replied Angel.   
  
"But you made them? Like you made me?"   
  
"Well, not exactly." Angel looked sheepish.   
  
Connor shifted in his chair. Angel sat on the edge of his desk looking anywhere but at his son. He had imagined this conversation countless times and, to his mild surprise, it was even more awkward than he had expected.   
  
Connor continued to glare. He did it with such penetrating sulkiness, Angel was quite impressed. Not even at her most manipulative had Darla ever managed such a glare.   
  
He coughed.   
  
"You know," he continued awkwardly, "it took two of us to make you, but with vampires, it only takes one."   
  
"Wow, you don't even get to have sex."   
  
Angel looked into those blue eyes, caught off guard by the provocative use of that word on his son's lips.   
  
"Well, generally not beforehand, no," he mumbled, smiling despite himself.   
  
Connor's lip curled further. Angel frowned again. It seemed more appropriate. He stood and walked behind his desk, leaning on the back of his leather chair.   
  
"So," said Connor, "who are my brothers and sisters?"   
  
Angel sighed, taking a seat. He toyed with a pen on his desk as he answered.   
  
"The only ones still alive are Spike and Drusilla."   
  
Connor saw the conflict in his face, and waited. He knew his father. Knew how to read him.   
  
Angel put the pen down and continued.   
  
"I turned Drusilla first. She was an innocent girl. Had the sight."   
  
"Like Cordelia?" The boy's voice was always brash, always challenging.   
  
"No," replied Angel. "Not like Cordelia. Not exactly. She saw more, and could sense the future. She knew what I was going to do to her."   
  
Angel grew silent, his face like stone. Connor became impatient.   
  
"Which was?" he asked.   
  
"I killed her family, her friends, drove her mad, and turned her on the night before she was to take Holy Orders." He said it without emotion, but Connor could hear beyond his voice.   
  
"Wow," he said, almost impressed. "That's evil."   
  
Angel merely nodded, his eyes dark and far away.   
  
"And Spike?" pressed Connor. He watched the frown lift from his father's face when he said that name. He watched him smile.   
  
"Spike," said Angel quietly. "Spike was my boy." He went back to toying with the pen. It was heavy and silver. "Spike was altogether different. I saw him on the street one night in London. He had all the grace of a newborn lamb. Have you ever seen one of those?"   
  
Connor shook his head.   
  
"Well, they have none, no grace at all. Spike was like that. Skinny legs, trying to rush around. He stormed past us on the street, me, Darla and Dru, and he dropped some pages he was holding. I could smell salty tears on his face." Angel laughed at the memory. "Told me to watch where I was going."   
  
Connor watched his father's face in fascination. He had not imagined that this would be a pleasant conversation for the old man. He had looked forward to more tortured guilt, more pain. Instead he got happy reminiscences.   
  
"I could not help myself. I had to follow him, to find out why such a handsome, graceless young man was storming about the dark streets of London with pages of awful poetry falling from his arms. And the tears, well, they just made it more enticing." Angel leaned forward, the pen between thumb and forefinger. He looked at Connor now, no longer abashed. He had forgotten his awkwardness.   
  
"I found him crying in a stable. I don't know whose, it wasn't his. His family were respectable but not rich. Poor William. He was never all he wanted to be."   
  
Connor looked on, interested now. He had never seen his father talk this way. He vaguely wondered if Angel's eyes lit up like this when he told people about him, Connor. His real son, he thought jealously.   
  
"He looked at me as if I were about to rob him. As if I were interested in his purse." Angel shook his head and laughed. "He wiped his face in his sleeve. His tears turned the wool dark. I was captivated. I had never seen a face like his before, certainly not in the grubby streets of London. I was called Angelus, but William, he had the naïveté of a true angel. White skin, soft hair. I imagined him singing his doggerel before the throne of God."   
  
Angel stood and went to the cupboard. He took out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.   
  
"You like this?" he asked Connor, raising the bottle. "Or would you prefer a beer?"   
  
Connor's eyes widened.   
  
"A beer, thanks."   
  
Angel went to the fridge and brought back a beer for his son. Connor snapped open the bottle and drank a mouthful as Angel poured twenty five year old Jameson into a crystal tumbler.   
  
"Where was I?" he asked, taking a sip and sighing at the taste. He sat back comfortably.   
  
"The throne of God," prompted Connor.   
  
"Right." Angel laughed. "The throne of God. Of course, in those days, if something belonged to God, I delighted in taking it away. And take it away I did." He took another swallow. It tasted watery in his mouth, but it burned in his belly like real warmth. "I asked him what brought him to such a state, hiding in a stable, tears on his face. He told me it was none of my business. It took some courage to talk to me like that back then."   
  
"Hard to imagine," said Connor, taking another mouthful of beer. Angel saw the light in his eye and laughed.   
  
"Yeah, your old man's gone soft," he said. "Back then, William was so unusual, his words fascinated me more. Of course he was afraid, I could smell it on him. Afraid of me, afraid of my accent, afraid of being alone in a dark place with a strange man bigger than him. But he stood up to me, in his own way. I tore the pages from his hand and read the verses. I ripped them apart, first figuratively, then literally. He simply watched, dumbfounded. He had never seen such improper behaviour in his life."   
  
Connor laughed. Angel raised his eyes to the sound. It was something unusual.   
  
"I asked him who he thought to impress with such drivel," he continued, the whiskey now a hot centre in his belly. "And he told me there was a woman. Cecily. He eventually admitted that she had spurned him that very evening. I laughed at him, told him it was no surprise, with such terrible verses as his. Told him Keats's laundry list had more poetry. Byron's dinner bill. And I watched him as he remained standing there, back to a wooden beam, taking all the abuse I threw at him. He bit his tongue, but he did not cry. Didn't even try to defend himself. He simply stood, as if there was nothing I could say that was worse than Cecily's rejection." Angel sighed again, lost in the memory.   
  
Connor waited, the acidic taste of beer on his tongue. Eventually he became impatient again.   
  
"What happened then?" he asked. "After you tore up his poetry?"   
  
Angel shook himself.   
  
"I told him I could make him a true poet, bring him closer to death than Keats had ever been. His eyes lit up, those blue eyes, behind his spectacles. William's eyes are marvellous, blue as the sky on a clear day. Suddenly he seemed eager to know more. Poor William," said Angel again. "He thought I held all the answers. He looked into my eyes, and he knew. He knew what I was."   
  
"He knew you were a vampire?" asked Connor.   
  
"Not exactly. I doubt he could give it words, even in his own mind. He knew I was something other. Something… effulgent." Angel laughed quietly. Connor frowned but stayed silent. "I had been fascinated by him; now he was fascinated by me. I pretended to lose interest, to leave him there in his stinking stable. Told him he would never amount to anything. But he pulled me back in, back in to the dark." Angel drained his glass, and refilled it. "Of course, I let him. William was not the strongest of humans. He demanded that I stay and explain myself."   
  
Again Angel seemed to melt into his reverie. Connor almost wished he could go there too. Angel spoke of such alien things with such familiarity and ease. Spoke of his past with such pleasure, now, though usually he looked away when his history became the subject of conversation. Again, Connor was wary of interrupting his father's thoughts, but again, his curiosity and impatience got the better of him.   
  
"Did you?" he asked.   
  
Angel looked at his son.   
  
"Did I what?"   
  
"Explain yourself. To William."   
  
Angel smiled lazily.   
  
"Yes." He sat forward, glass in hand. "But I don't think you want to hear this part."   
  
Connor said nothing, he merely stood up and left the room. He returned a moment later with a fresh bottle of beer.   
  
"I think I do," he said, sitting back and crossing an ankle over his knee.   
  
"You do," repeated Angel. "You're sure? You may hear things you don't like."   
  
Connor flicked his hair from his eyes.   
  
"Tell me about William, Dad," he said.   
  
Angel sat back again, his gaze locked with that of his son.   
  
"Okay. I'll tell you. Though stop me if there is something you don't want to hear."   
  
Connor shrugged at the compromise.   
  
Angel took a large mouthful of whiskey. He had never imagined telling Connor all this. He did not know why he told him now. Perhaps it was the boy's right to know. Perhaps William really was Connor's brother. He was too tired, and the whiskey was too warm inside him to figure it out now, so he simply continued walking through his memories of William.   
  
"William was beautiful," he began, his eyes measuring Connor's reaction. He saw nothing. "So slim, with, as I said, a face more beautiful than I could have expected to see anywhere, let alone weeping in a stable in London. I stood close to him as I promised him the world, I could smell his excitement, and his fear. Those are a heady mixture to a vampire." From the corner of his eye he watched as Connor willed himself still. "Of course," he continued, laughing a little, "he was Victorian almost to the core. Some things he simply did not think about. But I could hear his secret thoughts, the ones he buried in all his ethereal love poems to Cecily." He looked at his son. "You know what I mean?"   
  
Connor nodded slowly, the beer in his hand forgotten now. Angel could smell it, slightly sour in the air.   
  
"To a vampire, no such distinctions are made. Men, women, it's all the same. But it was a different thing then for most God-fearing humans. Though William was not so much God-fearing as mother-fearing." He chuckled, the sound low in his chest. "He could hardly conceive of what he himself wanted. And yet…" Angel's voice trailed away. His eyes were distant and bright. Connor knew he was watching William again, watching him finally submit to his father's charms.   
  
Angel roused himself again from his deep reverie.   
  
"The way he turned his head I will never forget. The way, when he saw my demonic face, he stretched out his neck, baring his throat to me. I hesitated because of my surprise and he looked at me fiercely. I would have laughed if I hadn't been so hungry for his blood. If I couldn't smell how hungry he was for me. I wanted my William, and I knew the sooner I turned him, the sooner I would have him. You know," he said, interrupting his own dreamlike train of thought, "at first, when I followed him, I didn't think I would turn him. I thought maybe I would let him die in that stable, really die. I knew Darla would be furious if I brought him home."   
  
Connor could not help but react to his mother's name.   
  
"Was she?" he asked quietly.   
  
"I will get to that part," replied Angel, smiling. "Do you want to hear more about William's turning? Or should I stop there?"   
  
"Go on," said Connor quickly. "I want to know."   
  
Angel nodded.   
  
"I drained him slowly. It's hard to describe the feeling of drinking one that you know you will turn. With William, it was incredibly personal and intimate, as he murmured all the little sounds into my ear of his life ebbing away. He knew what he was saying goodbye to, and he felt nothing but joy in his slowing heart. He did not know what he was facing, but I felt his courage as if it were finally unbottled. I felt him let go." Angel sighed. "I drank until I felt his heart almost stop. I took almost all of his blood. I held him as he lay on the dirty ground while I slit my wrist with my teeth and brought it to his mouth. He drank weakly at first, lapping up the drops that fell from the wound, but soon he had the strength to hold my arm down and clamp his mouth over the cut, drinking as if he understood that his very existence depended on it. It is a wonderful thing, watching and feeling someone choose to be born."   
  
"Well," interrupted Connor. "It's not really a choice, is it? He would have died."   
  
"Sometimes is takes greater courage not to choose death," replied his father. "Remember, this was eighteen eighty. As far as William was concerned, he knew what would happen after his death. Heaven or hell, hopefully heaven. And yet instead of the known, he chose the unknown." Angel smiled. "Instead of heaven, he chose me."   
  
Connor watched the fire burn in his father's eyes.   
  
"Was it the same when you allowed yourself to be turned by Darla?" He could not but ask.   
  
Angel shook his head.   
  
"No. I knew I was damned anyway," he replied with a rueful smile. "Just as she did. That's what she liked so much about me."   
  
Connor smiled despite himself. He knew he should not. He knew he should be horrified. But deep down, he found he could not be so. His father's past had never been anything but a litany of sins to him. This was new. This was interesting.   
  
"William loved that about me too. Loved that I was damning him." For once, that melancholy tone of guilt was absent. There was something else in its place. Perhaps nostalgia, Connor was not sure. "Finally he had taken all that I could give. He was voracious from the first, my William. And then I left his body there to be found in the morning. Just one day, and he would be mine."   
  
"So you left him there? How did you find him again?"   
  
"He was buried quickly, that day. I suppose his mother was shamed by his death in a stable, in the dirt. I suspect she knew more of William's heart than he himself did before he met me. That evening, it was a cold evening, crisp and clear. I left Darla and Drusilla, telling them I would hunt alone that night. Darla looked at me strangely as I left. She knew something was different. And she knew I would never leave her with Drusilla unless I had a reason. She hated being left alone with Dru. The whole insanity thing really bugged her." He smiled faintly, drinking more whiskey. He knew it loosened his tongue, and he did not want to stop his story yet. "So I went out into the city and closed my eyes. I listened. And I walked elsewhere and listened again. I did this until I heard him. I heard him wake up, and begin to kick his way out of that coffin."   
  
Connor narrowed his eyes.   
  
"What's that like?" he asked.   
  
"Scary. And you're so hungry, and you know what you have to do, but you're still weak, so you hit the lid until it gives and then gag on the earth pouring onto your face. Then you start to dig your way up, kicking against the bottom of the coffin to try to force your way. Just when you think you'll never reach the surface, you feel air around the tips of your fingers, and you catch hold of anything you can and pull yourself up and out of your own grave. And if you're lucky, your sire is there waiting for you. I was lucky. So was William."   
  
"If you're not lucky?"   
  
"The unlucky ones wander, lost, till they figure it out by themselves, but probably get staked young anyway. They can't survive without some kind of protection." Angel sighed heavily, but then smiled. "William was lucky. I saw his fingers appear over the earth, saw his nails broken and bloody, he had forced his way up so quickly. I loved that. I loved that he was so eager to reach me." Angel was smiling indulgently again. Then he looked up and caught his son's eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, his smile falling. "If I'm making you uncomfortable, tell me. I can skip more."   
  
Connor shook his head.   
  
"It's alright," he said quietly.   
  
"Are you sure? Because I know if my father was sitting here telling me stuff like this, I'd be uncomfortable."   
  
Connor laughed.   
  
"Was your Dad a two hundred and fifty year old vampire?" he asked softly.   
  
Angel shook his head, smiling.   
  
"No, I guess not," he replied.   
  
"Then you have no idea how much doesn't shock me." Connor smiled in return, a real smile. It was good to see his father happy. Connor remembered his beer and drank some. It was lukewarm by now, but he was not going to leave to get another. "So what happened next?" he said.   
  
Angel watched him for a moment before continuing.   
  
"He climbed out without my help. I watched him struggle up. He was fast and able and not afraid anymore. I was already proud. He stood in front of me, brushing the earth from his morning suit. Last time he was ever going to wear one of those." Angel grinned. Connor was amazed.   
  
"Was that a joke?" he asked incredulously.   
  
"Yeah," said Angel, still smiling. "Come on. A little resurrection-to-darkness humour never hurt anyone."   
  
Connor could only laugh in reply.   
  
Angel continued.   
  
"Of course, we couldn't hunt in the good parts of town with him dressed like that. And anyway, he was hungry. So we hunted close by, and then I brought him home."   
  
"What was it like, hunting?"   
  
"He was a natural, of course. William seemed to have been born to be a vampire. Maybe it was because he hated his life so much, the restrictions of society and expectations. He loved his new life. He hunted with passion, a real flair, you know?"   
  
"Yeah," said Connor. The laughter was gone. "But I mean, who did you hunt?"   
  
Angel's face clouded. He hesitated.   
  
"You've told me everything else," said Connor gently, though with a touch of defiance.   
  
"That first night, he chose a young man, the same age as himself. Ever the poet, was William. He drained him quickly, violently. Left his neck gashed and messy. The first kill is never neat." Angel bit his tongue, glancing at his son. He saw no reaction in his eyes. He could smell nothing but beer and whiskey. He decided to continue. The boy was right. He had told him everything else.   
  
"Once the first hunger is abated, then you start learning the art of a good, clean kill. We walked arm in arm for miles, until he saw another he fancied. A young lady this time. I wouldn't be surprised if she looked like his Cecily. I never asked him. This time I showed him how to do it properly, how to slide his fangs in and out again, and then just drink the blood that the heart pumps straight into your mouth." Angel ran a hand over his eyes. Connor looked away, then back again, almost afraid of his father's thoughts. Angel continued with his eyes covered. His voice was low and rough. "Then, as the heart slows, you need to help it along, so you suck more. You can make that pleasant or painful, depending on how you do it. If you suck nice and slow and gentle, the human will think they've already reached heaven as their bodies mistake numbness for weightless pleasure. The harder you suck, the more painful it will be. Imagine your blood being ripped the wrong way through your arteries, the walls of your blood vessels collapsing in on themselves as they're emptied. That's what it's like if you suck hard. William sucked fiercely. The woman died screaming in his arms."   
  
Angel grew silent. Connor felt that he should say something. His father lowered his hand, his eyes black and hard.   
  
"Do you miss it?" asked Connor finally.   
  
"What?" said Angel sharply.   
  
"The killing. Humans."   
  
Connor watched the debate rage inside his father. Watched him gauge his son, ask what he was capable of hearing and understanding. At last he saw the truth win out. Angel's eyes became harder still.   
  
"With every single mouthful of pig's blood, I miss it." He looked at Connor fiercely. "Does that make me more of a monster in your eyes?"   
  
"You know what it makes you in my eyes?"   
  
"What?"   
  
"It makes you honest."   
  
Connor let the statement hang. He watched Angel react to it. He knew it had been unexpected.   
  
He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, looking down at the ground.   
  
"I have never not taken what I wanted," he said quietly. "I took you and dumped you in the bottom of the sea. I took Fred and Gunn's trust and threw it back in their faces. I even took Cordelia, when I knew it was wrong." He looked back up at his father. "You're not like that. You take nothing you're not given. You want human blood but you don't take it." Angel looked shocked, as if he didn't trust his own ears. "I mean it," said Connor. "I've never seen you like this before. It's… enlightening."   
  
He sat back. Angel continued to stare. Connor held his gaze.   
  
"Are you going to tell me more or just keep looking at me?" he said.   
  
Angel blinked.   
  
"You want to know more?" he asked uncertainly.   
  
"I told you, it's enlightening." Connor put his empty beer bottle on the ground and sat comfortably into his chair, crossing his arms.   
  
"Okay," said Angel. He thought for a minute before continuing. "William was full now, and warm from the new blood. He was full of life, kept playing around, loving his body and its freedom. He held my hand and pulled me along the dark streets, like a child, but with a knowing gleam in his eyes. He delighted in the shocked faces of people who saw two men so familiar on the street. He began to walk closer to me, smiling and laughing, whispering into my ear, sliding his arm around my waist as he did so." Angel relaxed again, thoughts of William calming him. "Finally we got to the house that Darla and Dru and I had taken. I expected them to be out still, to have time alone with William before facing Darla. But no." Angel smiled again. "She knew I was up to something and had hunted quickly that night. Dru was playing with her dolls when I pulled William into the drawing room. Darla stood by the fire, and I have never seen fury like hers that night."   
  
"My mother," cut in Connor. He wanted to say the words. "What did she think?"   
  
Angel shook his head slowly.   
  
"She looked at William as if he was filth. Asked me what I had brought home. Where I had found him. William just stood beside me, looking mildly alarmed. He kept a hold of my hand, running his other hand along my arm. I stood just in front of him. I was afraid, for a while, that she would stake him then and there."   
  
"She was jealous?"   
  
"I guess so. I was hers, and maybe I loved her, in my own soulless way. I could not imagine continuing without her. But I wanted more. I wanted Dru, for a while, before I forgot about her and just let her tag along because she occasionally amused me. And that night I wanted William. I hated the fact that I had to go through all the shouting and arguing before I could drag him upstairs and…" He cut himself off, looking at Connor. Who was smiling. Angel smiled too, and concentrated suddenly on an invisible blemish on his desk, scratching it with a fingernail. "Heh," he said. "I guess you can finish that sentence if you like. Your choice."   
  
"I think I'll choose not to, and just pretend I did," said Connor. "You're still my Dad."   
  
Angel looked up.   
  
"Okay. I'll skip those bits."   
  
"I appreciate that."   
  
"Don't mention it."   
  
They laughed gently.   
  
"So she was mad. Did you talk her down?" prompted Connor.   
  
"Eventually. She had just become used to Dru, and now here was another member for our little family. I pointed out that it wasn't the same, William wasn't insane. She told me I was. I told her William was a poet and she laughed in his face. I couldn't help laughing myself at that. Dru seemed enchanted by him, though. She said she always liked the taste of poets. She went on about moonbeams for a while. But I growled her down. No one was going to touch my William until I said so, even Darla finally realised that. Then I dragged him upstairs and didn't finish the sentence." Angel laughed and drained his whiskey again. "And that was William's welcome into the bosom of our family."   
  
"And I thought ours was dysfunctional," said Connor.   
  
"You never knew your mother," said Angel, a touch sadly.   
  
"No," said Connor. He looked away.   
  
"For two hundred and fifty years, I was her darling boy," said Angel quietly. "Even when we were apart. But that night, the night she died, before you were born, she put her arms around you while you were still inside her and called you her darling boy. She loved you."   
  
"She staked herself for me."   
  
"Yeah," said Angel raggedly.   
  
"I'm sorry," said Connor. "For taking her away from you."   
  
Angel looked at him.   
  
"No, no, Connor, don't be sorry. You didn't take her away from me." He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. "You gave her to me. She loved you, and I knew she loved me. For a hundred years we'd been apart, she couldn't stand my soul. Even when she was human. But that moment she understood, and I knew her. I would not change it for the world."   
  
"But you miss her," said Connor.   
  
Angel nodded.   
  
"I do," he said. "And I miss my William. I even miss Dru." He rubbed his eyes. He was tired, and he could feel the dawn tingle at the base of his spine.   
  
"Where is she?"   
  
"I don't know. Far away, I think. We'd hear something if she was close. I miss her, but I think the further away she is from me, the better."   
  
"And what about William?"   
  
"It's Spike now. He can be very adamant about that." Angel smiled wistfully. "He's still in Sunnydale, I guess. I haven't heard anything about him for a few years. I imagine I'd hear if he left."   
  
"In Sunnydale? Where the Slayer lives?"   
  
"Yeah. Where I used to live."   
  
"Don't you think she'd have killed him by now?"   
  
"Last I heard, he had some implant in his head that stopped him harming humans, so she couldn't bring herself to stake him."   
  
"Oh." Connor looked confused.   
  
"I know, I don't understand the whole chip thing either." Angel rubbed his face and yawned. "And I'm not going to tonight, I think," he said, smiling. "Are you okay? Did I tell you too much?"   
  
Connor shook his head gently.   
  
"No, you didn't," he said. "You told me just the right amount."   
  
"Good," replied Angel, pushing himself out of his chair. "In that case, I am going to bed now. If you think of any questions, ask me tonight."   
  
"Can I have more beer if I do?"   
  
Angel laughed and put his hand on Connor's shoulder as he passed.   
  
"Sure," he said. "If I can have whiskey."   
  
"Hey, it's your liquor," said Connor, standing too.   
  
Angel turned to face his son.   
  
"Thank you, Connor," he said. "For listening."   
  
Connor shrugged.   
  
"Thanks for telling me."   
  
Then Angel pulled him into a bear hug and kissed his head.   
  
"Goodnight," he said, letting go.   
  
"Night," said Connor, watching his tired father walk across the lobby.   
  
It was almost five thirty. Connor reckoned that if he slept for a few hours, and then stole the car, he could be in Sunnydale by lunchtime.   
  
He headed to bed. He did not need an alarm clock.   
TBC   



	2. Spike

_Thanks so much for the feedback, everyone! I just wanted to make it clear that Spike still has his chip, when I wrote this he hadn't had it removed yet. Doesn't make any difference to the story, really, just that it's mentioned and I wanted to clarify. Thanks again!_   
  
~*~  
Part Two  
~*~   
  
Angel came down to the lobby that evening after the sun had dipped below the horizon. Cordelia sat at her desk and Wesley stood by the reception desk. Angel took a moment to appreciate Wesley's return.   
  
"Hey," he said.   
  
"Morning," said Wesley dryly.   
  
"Hey, Mister Sleeps-Through-The-Best-Part-Of-The-Day," said Cordelia.   
  
Angel laughed.   
  
"Where are Fred and Gunn?" he asked.   
  
"Out," replied Wesley, a little tersely.   
  
"And Connor?"   
  
"Haven't seen him since this morning," said Cordelia. "Said he was going out for a while."   
  
"Oh. Okay," said Angel. "So, what have we got?"   
  
"You think we'd sit around letting you sleep all day if there was a case and or an apocalypse?" said Cordelia. "Though I'm really honing my solitaire skills."   
  
"And I honed the axe blades," added Wesley.   
  
"Thanks," said Angel. "Good to keep them, you know, sharp."   
  
Wesley nodded.   
  
"If you don't think you need me here this evening, I might head away now."   
  
"Oh, sure, hey, if there's nothing happening," said Angel.   
  
"Okay," replied Wesley. He took his coat from the coat stand. "I'll see you in the morning, then. Or perhaps the late afternoon." He gave Angel a small smile as he left.   
  
Cordelia stood and walked over to the reception desk. She leaned her elbows on it and watched the door close behind Wesley.   
  
"Still in awkward conversation land, huh?" she said.   
  
Angel shrugged.   
  
"Still working on it," he said. "So Connor didn't say where he was going?"   
  
"Nope. Just out. Why, you worried?"   
  
"No," said Angel worriedly. "It's just, we were up late last night talking. I'm surprised he didn't sleep more, that's all."   
  
"You know Connor. Some days, twenty three hours' sleep. Other days, three. I'm sure he's fine."   
  
Angel did not have the time to reply. Connor was at the garden door, pushing it open, and pulling someone behind him.   
  
"Of course I'm fine," he said. "I think Spike's a little tired though."   
  
"Not tired, cranky. There's a difference." Spike stormed through the door. He pulled up short when he saw Angel. "Well," he said, smiling brashly. "So it's true, then."   
  
Angel took a hesitant step towards Connor and Spike.   
  
"Spike. What's true?" he asked cautiously.   
  
"He's your son."   
  
"Oh. Yeah. That's true."   
  
"Interesting," said Spike, swaggering towards Angel. "I know a Slayer who'd find it interesting, anyway, that you have a son."   
  
"Excuse me?" hissed Cordelia. "Shouldn't we be getting stakes?"   
  
"No, wait." Angel held out his hand to stop her. "Spike can't harm humans."   
  
"Maybe, but he could still hurt you!"   
  
Angel shook his head distractedly.   
  
"Cordelia, please," he said. "Wait a moment."   
  
Angel watched Spike as he coolly looked around the lobby.   
  
"What happened the old gaff?" he asked nonchalantly.   
  
"Blew up," replied Angel.   
  
"Oh," said Spike. "This place is nice."   
  
"Thanks."   
  
"Just bloody like you to find some fantastic huge place to ponce about in." Spike scuffed the floor with a worn boot. He was uncomfortable under Angel's gaze. And he knew what he would see.   
  
"What's different about you?" asked Angel softly. "There's something different. Not the chip."   
  
Spike laughed under his breath.   
  
"Yeah," he said. "Something different alright." He closed the distance between Angel and himself and looked straight into his eyes. "Can't you see it?"   
  
Angel looked into those stormy blue eyes, eyes that had played over him in his dreams.   
  
"No," he said, his own eyes widening in shock. "Not possible."   
  
"Oh, believe it, Peaches. Because don't we just love irony."   
  
"You have a soul."   
  
"That I do."   
  
"Oh my God."   
  
"Whose God?"   
  
"William, shut up."   
  
"Don't bloody call me that."   
  
"Were you cursed?"   
  
"No, did it myself."   
  
"Why didn't you come to me?" Angel took hold of his shoulders. "Why didn't you come?"   
  
Spike squirmed in his hands and broke free.   
  
"Because it wasn't for you. This soul wasn't for you."   
  
Angel nodded in realisation.   
  
"Buffy. It was for Buffy."   
  
Spike stilled, watching Angel. He nodded slightly and half turned away, his shoulders hunched and defensive. He scuffed the ground some more.   
  
"Why didn't you tell me?" continued Angel, more gently now.   
  
Spike laughed acerbically.   
  
"I don't think I'm the only one keeping secrets, pet," he said, fishing in the pocket of his duster. He drew out a battered pack of cigarettes and lit one up. "But don't worry. The boy filled me in on our fun trip from Sunnydale."   
  
"Yeah, and how did you get to Sunnydale?" said Angel sternly, rounding on Connor.   
  
Connor stood boldly, his hands in his pockets.   
  
"I borrowed your car."   
  
"You what?"   
  
"And when I got there, I looked up the phone book and found the only Summers house in Sunnydale. And when I got to her house, Spike was there, alone. Wasn't difficult." He spoke with his chin jutted forward in a way that infuriated his father.   
  
"Why did you look for him in the first place, Connor? He could have been dangerous! He could have killed you!"   
  
Connor laughed derisively.   
  
"Yeah, with a soul and a chip? I think I was safe."   
  
"You didn't know that." Angel tried to calm his anger.   
  
"What I did know was that you told me a story last night all about him, and I wanted to see if it was all true. But he wouldn't tell me. He wouldn't believe I was your son."   
  
"I could smell you all over him," cut in Spike. "That's why I came. It was the son bit I had a problem with. See, I thought I was your only son, Sire darling. But Connor here tells me that he's a miracle boy, the son of two vampires. The other vampire in this little equation being, much to my surprise, Darla, who was dead. After all of that he told me about Holtz and Quor-toth and dimensional rifts. Even about him and Cordy here."   
  
Spike leered at Cordelia, who grimaced and sighed.   
  
"You told him everything?" said Angel to Connor.   
  
Connor shrugged.   
  
"Why not? He's family. Said so yourself."   
  
"Did he now?" said Spike, amused. He took a drag of his cigarette and flicked ash on the ground with a thumbnail. "How nice. I feel all loved."   
  
"You know, you'd think a soul would change a guy's smoking habits," said Cordelia, needled.   
  
"It's a soul. It doesn't mean I'll suddenly get cancer."   
  
"Yeah, well there are actual people here, buddy," she said, waving smoke away with her hand.   
  
"Oh, I'm sorry. I do apologise. I just got manhandled into a Plymouth by a kid and driven to LA to a sire who has forgotten all about us at home in Sunnydale so much that it completely slipped his mind to tell us about his miracle boy! His son!" Spike spat with bitter anger. "What else has he got in store, eh? What else has he forgotten?"   
  
"Not you," said Connor softly.   
  
Spike spun.   
  
"What?" he said.   
  
"Not you. That's why I wanted to talk to you."   
  
Spike looked from the boy to Angel and back again. Angel studied the floor. Cordelia looked puzzled.   
  
"Care to clarify? Or do you enjoy the cryptic?"   
  
"I told you. We talked all last night about you. About how he turned you. I wanted to know your side of it."   
  
Spike looked back to Angel.   
  
"You really told him all that?"   
  
Angel nodded.   
  
"Yeah," he said.   
  
Spike took a few steps towards him.   
  
"Are you sure it's suitable for kids?"   
  
"Hey, not a kid," said Connor.   
  
"I left those parts out," said Angel, smiling softly now.   
  
Spike could not help but smile too when he saw the twinkle in his sire's eye. Then he remembered himself and shrugged defiantly.   
  
"Yeah, well, that was a long time ago. What's it to you, anyway, kid?"   
  
"Two sides to every story. What's yours?"   
  
"Why don't you believe your old man? Put in a few flowery bits, did he?" Spike took another ragged drag. "Shouldn't wonder," he muttered.   
  
"I don't remember any flowers," said Angel.   
  
"No. There rarely were, with you." Spike stood close. Angel moved closer. They stood inches apart.   
  
"Talk to my son," he said, quietly. "Son."   
  
Spike smiled.   
  
"Don't pull that crap with me."   
  
"Spike," Angel whispered. "Please."   
  
Spike threw his cigarette butt on the floor and ground it out slowly with his heel.   
  
"Alright," he said. "Why not set him straight on the bollocks you probably fed him? But I warn you. I'm not his Dad, I leave nothing out."   
  
Angel ran a hand over his eyes.   
  
"Your story," he said. "Your choice. But he may not want to hear it."   
  
"Then I'm sure he'll beat my mouth shut. Like father…"   
  
Angel stepped back and turned away.   
  
"Cordy?"   
  
Cordelia looked up from the desk.   
  
"Yeah?"   
  
"You want to catch that Bogart double bill? We'll leave Connor and Spike here."   
  
Cordelia smiled too widely.   
  
"Sure," she said brightly. "Who wouldn't want to catch that?"   
  
Angel took her hand in his as he walked towards the steps. He gave Connor a last glance as he passed, and tried to smile. Connor's eyes softened as he watched them walk up the stairs together.   
  
Then they were gone.   
  
Spike walked further into the cavernous lobby.   
  
"So," he said, looking around behind the desk and peering into Angel's office. "No stories without alcohol, pet. And an ashtray, if you would be so kind."   
  
"Whiskey or beer?"   
  
"He's got whiskey?"   
  
"Yeah."   
  
Spike smiled.   
  
"Probably good stuff, too. I'll have some of that, thanks very much."   
  
He shrugged off his duster and laid it over the back of the red couch. He sat down with a sigh, his eyes still roving all over the Hyperion's opulence. Glass clinked from Angel's office and Connor returned with the remainder of last night's Jameson and a new bottle. He brought himself a beer from the fridge and an ashtray, which he placed on the low table in front of Spike.   
  
He took a seat and met Spike's eyes. Angel had told the truth about one thing at least. Those eyes were extraordinarily blue.   
  
Spike poured a full glass of whiskey and knocked back a mouthful. He sighed as the liquid burned his belly, lying his head on the back of the couch with his eyes closed. Connor watched him, waiting, noting how different Spike was from his father. There was a different kind of grace to him, not exactly the grace of age, but a tautness developed over many years hunting and running.   
  
It was hard to imagine him as an awkward, Victorian, middle class poet.   
  
He took out another cigarette and lit it up with his eyes still closed.   
  
"I expect I know what he told you," he said suddenly, smoke forming the shapes of the words as he exhaled in the low light. "I know how he likes to see me." One eye squinted open as he smiled devilishly. "Naked, mostly."   
  
Connor scowled uncomfortably and drank a mouthful of beer.   
  
"But maybe you don't want to know about that. Not yet, anyway. Where did he start? The street that night?"   
  
Connor nodded. Spike sat up and flicked ash into the ashtray.   
  
"I had been at a party." He laughed. "I don't know how much you know about parties back then, but let me tell you, they weren't big on fun. Boring sodding conversation, that's what you got in those days at parties. Card games you couldn't even gamble in, and some bint on a tinny piano. Not even decent alcohol. And the women? Not an ankle showing." He smiled, shaking his head. "But the woman I loved was there. So I went."   
  
"Cecily," said Connor.   
  
"Yeah," said Spike quietly. "It's funny, how things happen. That night, I told her I loved her. And she didn't care. I think that was the worst part. She just didn't care." Spike sighed. "So I left. Stormed out of there, all passion and pain. And that's when I bumped into Angelus. Literally. Bloody ponce took up half the street with his manly shoulders." He smiled despite his tone. "Knocked my precious poetry all over the cobbles. I told him to watch where he was going and stormed on. Had no idea where I was storming to, and when I got there, I had no idea he'd been following me."   
  
Connor nodded.   
  
"He can do that," he said.   
  
"Yeah. Anyway, I don't know why I went into that stable. Somewhere sort of warm to sit until the pain and anguish burned less fiercely." He laughed at himself. "I thought I knew what pain and anguish were. I had no idea. Angelus taught me that."   
  
"He can do that, too."   
  
"Oh, don't think you know anything about what he used to be, kid," said Spike. "Your father was the Scourge of Europe, so called for good reason. And I was his whipping boy. And you know what the thing is?"   
  
Connor shook his head.   
  
"The things is, I was proud of that fact. That bastard made me proud of it." Spike smoked the last of his cigarette and stubbed it out. He knocked back another large mouthful of whiskey. "Anyway, we'll get to that later. We were in the stable. He followed me in, and of course I was mortified that someone should see me cry. I wiped my face in my sleeve. I didn't have time to get my handkerchief. I thought maybe he owned the stable and was there to kick me out, or maybe he was a robber. I stood up. But instead of attacking me, he asked me why I was crying. I was astounded. I told him it was none of his business." He laughed. "I was so upset I didn't even notice how intimidating he was until he stood up close to me. He took the pages from my hand and began to read. I knew that he would not understand, that a man like him was not capable of finer feeling. And of course he was Irish, which in those days, in London, simply meant uncouth and savage, and that was all I could see."   
  
Connor raised an eyebrow.   
  
"Believe me, there was more to him than that. For an evil thing, he could be quite cultured. High society loved him. Well, until he left them splattered all over the dining room walls." Spike grinned. "Darla loved that about him. We all loved that about him."   
  
"How can you smile when you say that?"   
  
"I know, it seems… grotesque. But apart from the death and the blood, those were good days. And you know, it wasn't us that died, which can make the whole death thing easier, I think. Well, we only died the once." He grinned again.   
  
Connor frowned, but bit back the comment forming on his lips.   
  
"Go on about the stable," he simply said.   
  
Spike poured another glass of whiskey.   
  
"Well," he said. "As I had suspected, Angelus didn't think much of my work. Called it drivel. Told me Shelley's shopping list had more poetry. I said nothing, of course, knowing that such a man as he would not listen. He raved on, tearing the poems up sheet by sheet. I watched the paper fall to the ground, and he stood all over it. The ink ran underneath his boots. And I thought to myself, they're gone. My words." Spike shook his head, taking a drink. "And suddenly I realised I didn't care. I didn't care. And that shocked me. I began to watch this strange, dark man more closely. It wasn't just anyone who could make me forget my poetry, you know."   
  
Spike stretched out, setting his boots heavily upon the table. He kept the whiskey glass in his hand and held it on his belly. Connor watched it move up and down as the vampire breathed. He knew what that meant.   
  
"Angelus looked like the devil himself," continued Spike. "Dark and dangerous. Like Heathcliff, I thought to myself. His eyes burned with a black flame, now and then flaring amber. I didn't understand it then, but I knew he was something different. Something… effulgent." He laughed. Connor frowned again. He was going to ask Wesley what that meant.   
  
"He told me he could make me a true poet, an artist, with death itself as my art. An offer pretty tempting to a Romantic like me, I'm sure you can imagine. But really, at that point, I had lost interest in rhyming. It dawned on me that I wanted, simply, to be with him. Not in any sexual way, of course. That thought never crossed my mind, not until after. But I wanted to spend time with him, this hulk of a man in impeccable tailoring, standing in a stable. And I thought, my mother would be shocked." A smile played about Spike's lips. "But then suddenly he went to leave. Told me I was worthless, that I'd never amount to anything anyway. I watched his back as he left, thinking, I don't care. Let him go. But he turned around just as he reached the door and came back." Spike's eyes sparkled. "He couldn't leave me."   
  
Connor smiled.   
  
"I asked him, 'Who do you think you are, coming into a stable and judging a fellow like this?' and he laughed. He stood close to me, very close. He promised me the world. He said all I had to do was trust him." Spike's voice faded away as he watched the scene in his head.   
  
Connor waited, watching his eyes play between hate and something else.   
  
"That's when his face changed. I remember. I was utterly calm." Spike's voice was little more than a whisper now. "I tilted my head to the side, but I kept my eyes on him. He seemed to hesitate for a second, which made me instantly furious. Then he bit. And I have never felt anything like it." Spike gave a small laugh at the inadequacy of the words. He fumbled for another cigarette.   
  
"What did it feel like?" asked Connor softly.   
  
Spike flicked open his lighter.   
  
"Being drained by your father?" He lit the cigarette and inhaled. "Heavenly. He did it so slowly and gently. I knew he was killing me and I could feel his big hands on my back, holding me close to him. And let me tell you, he liked killing me. I could feel him hard against my belly."   
  
Connor flinched. Spike laughed.   
  
"You want the details, kid, you get the details." He took a languorous drag of his cigarette. "Yeah, he had a raging hard-on for me. But I couldn't feel my legs anymore so he brought me to the floor and took the last of my blood. I could barely think or feel. I knew that I was a breath away from death. I knew that if I could only think, that thought would be exciting. I waited an age, and nothing happened. Then at last, I felt something splash on my mouth, so I licked it from my lips. It was terrible, the taste. It burned my mouth white hot, and it was viscous and vile on my tongue. But I had to have it. I felt more splash down and I licked that too. Soon I felt it tingle in my body, like electricity in every nerve, and I could move a bit again. So I grabbed his arm and sucked. I could not get enough. I lay back against him, between his legs, and sucked his wrist more. I kicked the ground, pushing back into him and he held my belly with his other hand, holding me tighter against him still. His dick was rock hard against my back. It occurred to me that I was doing that to him. Even then the irony was not lost on me, that the most powerful moment of my life was my death."   
  
"How did you know what was happening?" asked Connor.   
  
"I didn't know exactly, or at least not consciously. But it seemed right. Seemed natural." Spike laughed. "Though it is anything but. There was less blood coming from his wrist now, and I still wanted more, but he pulled away. His body jerked behind me and he roared. The last thing I heard him say was my name. I remember wondering vaguely how he knew my name, because I hadn't told him. And then it all faded to black. I died in his arms."   
  
Connor shifted uncomfortably on the couch.   
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Spike, noticing. "Have I told you too much? Some questions answered that you didn't even know you wanted to ask, eh?" He took another drink. "I know what this is about, kid."   
  
"No, you don't," replied Connor levelly.   
  
Spike shrugged and sat up. He poured another glass of whiskey.   
  
"Doesn't matter," he said. "I'll tell it the same, anyway."   
  
There was silence as he sat back again and sipped the whiskey. He drank more slowly now. The heat in his belly calmed him.   
  
"Go on," said Connor.   
  
"Keep your pants on. I'm just thinking."   
  
Connor sighed sullenly. Spike smirked.   
  
"When I woke up, it was still black. It took me a few moments to remember everything. Then I realised I was in a coffin. Panicked for a minute, because I couldn't breathe. Then, of course, I realised that I didn't have to. I realised that what I did have to do was get the hell out of there. So I began to smash the lid. Took a while, too. There wasn't a lot of space to get a proper swing at it. I kicked at it too, as best I could. Finally it gave way. The loose earth poured in on top of me and I felt like I was going to suffocate again. It got in my mouth and nose. I hated it. But I had to get out. I cut my fingers on the splintered wood. I started pushing up, just trying to get out of there." Spike took a breath and rubbed a hand over his face. "It's not easy, crawling out of your own grave. When I finally pulled myself up and out, he was there waiting for me, smiling at me with that leer of his. Do you know it?" He looked at Connor.   
  
Connor shook his head.   
  
"No," said Spike. "I suppose you wouldn't. He doesn't smile like that anymore. Anyway, he probably wouldn't smile like that at you."   
  
The boy frowned again.   
  
"Smile like what?" he asked.   
  
"Like he wants to fuck you seven ways from Tuesday," said Spike calmly.   
  
"Oh," said Connor. "No. He's never looked at me like that."   
  
"I should hope not," said Spike. "Him being the role model of us souled vampires. That would lead us all astray."   
  
"You don't act like him. Like you have a soul."   
  
Spike pondered with the aid of his cigarette.   
  
"I don't think," he said, after some time, "that having a soul means you have to lose your sense of humour. And I've never been big on guilt. See, he was outright evil. No question about it. He put in the legwork. Me? I just did my thing. I was never as bad as him. Never. Sort of puts things in perspective."   
  
Connor looked sceptical, but said nothing.   
  
"So," he said instead. "He stood over your grave."   
  
"That's right," replied Spike. "Stood and watched me spitting dirt. Probably just didn't want to spoil his clothes, bloody poofter." He chuckled quietly. "I was starving. He said he knew the feeling. He told me we couldn't hunt on the Westside because I was in a morning suit. I didn't care. I never had his palette, certainly not fresh out of the grave." Spike raised an eyebrow. "So he took me hunting nearby. I could have eaten anyone, but of course he had his standards. He seemed pleased when I picked out a young man. Had on pince-nez. Looked a right ponce, just like me." He laughed at himself. He spoke conspiratorially now, looking straight at Connor from his reclined position. His legs rested haphazardly on the table. "Of course, it was my first kill. Was never going to be my neatest. I think I ripped the poor fellow's throat out."   
  
Connor simply listened. With a shock, he found he was no longer repulsed by the deaths recounted.   
  
Spike leaned over and flicked ash into the ashtray.   
  
"Oh, what a night. Next he dragged me on and on. I was wired. High on blood and death and him. He kept his arms around me, holding me with those big, manly hands. He whispered in my ear, putting his arm around my waist. He made me tingle, did your magnificent father. He brought me along narrow streets, making up stories for people we passed, telling me what they were, telling me to choose." Spike's eyes were now far away. "I finally picked a pretty enough girl, dark hair, decent clothes. I didn't care, but he seemed to think there was a significance in who I killed, especially that night. I took her by the throat. I was about to do the same thing again, leave her minus most of her neck. But he stopped me. She thought he was saving her. She held on to him as if he would take her away from me."   
  
Connor shifted in his seat.   
  
"I know, ironic, isn't it?" laughed Spike caustically. "He held her still and told me how to bite her properly, how to sink my fangs in right to the jugular without being messy. I did it and drank, I was still so hungry. I took her blood so fast she screamed in pain. Angelus laughed. He loved the sound of her screaming."   
  
"Did you just leave her there?"   
  
"'Course. No one gave much of a toss, really, look how fast I was buried. And Jack the Ripper hadn't made dead women's bodies interesting yet. We just left her lying there and ran off. He took my hand in his and ran. He threw me against a wall and crushed me, kissing me so ferociously. Kept calling me his boy. Said he'd take me right there and then if it wasn't my first night with him. Wanted to make it special, he said." Spike laughed and looked at Connor. He laughed again when he saw the boy's face.   
  
Connor looked horrified.   
  
"Oh, I think I told you too much!" said Spike. The grin on his face belied any possibility of apology. "Well, get used to it. You knew you'd hear this my way. He's the only man ever touched me, and damned if I'm going to edit the story for your delicate boyish ears." Spike emptied his whiskey glass defiantly and poured another. "I'm damned anyway," he muttered.   
  
"You really have to tell me everything? I think I prefer hearing about the killing." Connor took a healthy swig of beer.   
  
"Hey, I got stories featuring both, often with the same person! Shall I tell you those instead?"   
  
"Please don't." Connor got up and stretched. "I'm getting more beer. You want anything?"   
  
"You got blood? I'm a bit hungry."   
  
"Sure," said Connor. "I'll get you some."   
  
Spike watched him as he walked. He was more like Darla, slight, with a gentle bone structure. But there was something of Angel there too, something predatory.   
  
He brought back blood and beer and placed them on the table before sitting down again. Spike sat up to drink.   
  
"Hey, it's warm," he said.   
  
"Ninety eight point six," replied Connor, opening his beer bottle.   
  
"Thanks," said Spike. He drank most of it back at a go and wiped his hand over his mouth. "Needed that, all this talk of blood makes a vamp hungry."   
  
"You're welcome," said Connor, drinking his beer slowly. He sat back again and looked at Spike expectantly.   
  
"Hold on a sec, kid. Gotta have me smoke now, don't I." Again Spike went through his cigarette lighting ritual and took a deep drag. "Well, where were we?" he said innocently.   
  
Connor rolled his eyes.   
  
"My father wanted to take you," he said.   
  
"No, I mean specifically?" Spike smiled. "That was always a given, pet." He lay back on the couch, his head resting on one arm and boots over the other. "He dragged me home, his hands all over my body. I think that's where we were."   
  
"Yeah," said Connor.   
  
"Well. He flung open the front door to this great big house they were renting. Fucking gorgeous, it was. Him and Darla, they liked style. Dru would've been happy in a damp old crypt, but those two. Had to have the grandeur." Spike waved a hand around at the lobby. "He threw me right in against the wall, slamming the door behind him, and pushed up against me, kissing me again. His dick was hard, and so was mine. I was full of blood. It was glorious, him and me, all that heat. He must have fed earlier." Spike reached out for his whiskey glass and drained it at a go. The blood and alcohol gave colour to his skin. Or maybe it was the memory. "Then he reached around me and opened the door to the drawing room. We fell in, barely staying standing. Then he stopped kissing me, and he laughed. I looked around, and laughed too. Darla stood there looking furious. The only other time I've seen her that furious was when Angelus left us in eighteen ninety eight."   
  
"Why was she so angry?" asked Connor.   
  
"Seeing her darling boy with someone else was bad enough for Darla. She could barely stand Drusilla because Angelus turned her. And then seeing me stumble in wrapped in his arms, drunk on him? She would have staked me on the spot if she could've. But I didn't let her near me. She screamed at Angelus that he was as insane as Dru. She said she'd leave, find herself another stallion. Oh, you should have seen him when she said that. Without letting go of me, he walked over to her at the fireplace and rubbed the back of his fingers down her cheek. He kissed her, but he squeezed my hand. She hated that he made her melt, but he did. Then Dru started saying something about the moon." Spike took another drink. "I thought she was barmy. Of course I was perfectly right. But Angelus didn't want to hang around. As soon as Darla finished her tirade, he dragged me upstairs and buggered me senseless."   
  
Connor tried to suppress a flinch, but failed.   
  
"In one night he taught me the meaning of so many words, buggery being one of them. And debauchery. Lewdness. Depravity, I would go so far as to say."   
  
"You loved every minute of it," said Connor, with accusatory eyes.   
  
Spike turned to him and smiled widely.   
  
"Oh, yes," he said with enthusiasm. "I did. His body and mine, together, sweat gleaming in the gaslight. He kissed me so deep when he fucked me, I could hardly bear his dick being so far inside me." Spike's eyes glowed, but his smile softened as he relented. "And maybe that's all I'll tell you," he said gently.   
  
Connor stared at him, registering nothing until he sighed and smiled with a touch of embarrassment.   
  
"That would be good," he said, leaning forward and rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.   
  
"So," said Spike. "You happy now? Our stories match up?"   
  
Connor sighed, tired.   
  
"Yeah," he said, nodding. "Well enough."   
  
"Good. And now it's my turn to ask you something." Spike swung his legs to the ground as he sat up facing Connor. "Why did you want to know? What was so important?"   
  
Connor shrugged.   
  
"I guess…" He looked away, thinking. "I guess, because you're his son, too. You should have heard how he spoke about you last night. I wanted to know if you spoke the same way about him."   
  
"And do I?"   
  
Connor smiled knowingly.   
  
"Oh yeah," he said. "You do."   
  
Spike looked at him.   
  
"Really," he said flatly, stubbing out his cigarette.   
  
"Yeah," replied Connor. "Really."   
  
Spike did not reply.   
  
"Well," said Connor, after a silence. "I gotta go to bed."   
  
"Yeah, dawn's coming soon. I feel like bed myself." Spike rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger.   
  
"Come on, I'll find you a bedroom," said Connor.   
  
"No need," came a voice from the stairs above. "I'll do it."   
  
"Dad," said Connor. "Okay. I'll just… go to bed then. G'night."   
  
"Night," said Spike, watching Angel come down the stairs.   
  
"Night, son," said Angel as Connor passed him.   
TBC   



	3. Angel and Spike

_Thanks again for the reviews, you are all very kind. I hope you enjoy this, the last part of the story. It is not complete here, because of the smut, but to read the end please follow instructions at the bottom. Sorry for the extra bother, but such are the fanfiction.net rules._  
  
~*~  
Part 3  
~*~   
  
Spike stood and stretched sullenly in the dim light. Angel stopped a few paces from the couch and watched him.   
  
"So," said Spike. "Listening in to our little tête-à-tête, were you?"   
  
"Only the end," replied Angel.   
  
"Oh. And what were we talking about at the end? I forget." Spike cast around for his cigarette pack. He cursed under his breath when he found it empty.   
  
"You were talking about me fucking you, Spike."   
  
"Oh yeah," said Spike, with a smile. "I remember now." He picked up his duster and began to check the pockets roughly.   
  
Angel suddenly stepped forward and tore the duster from his hands. He flung it to the ground across the lobby.   
  
"Hey!" said Spike.   
  
"You told my son all that? You had to tell him?"   
  
"No, I didn't have to," said Spike indolently. "Though honestly, Peaches, he didn't seem that surprised. Sure you didn't drop a few hints yourself?"   
  
Angel stepped back exasperatedly. He ran a hand over his face.   
  
"Yeah, I might've mentioned it a little," he muttered.   
  
"What was that? Didn't quite catch it." Spike stepped forward, cupping his ear.   
  
"I said, I might have mentioned it. But dammit, Spike, I never used the word 'dick'!"   
  
"Well why not? I seem to remember you enjoying mine."   
  
"Because he's my son! He doesn't need to know this," said Angel through gritted teeth.   
  
Spike looked at him and laughed.   
  
"'Course he does," he said. "He wants to see you as a person, Angel. A man of passion. Not just the dour father figure you seem to so enjoy being."   
  
"Dour? I'm not dour. Me, dour?"   
  
"Yeah. You, you daft sod. Why do you think he came running to find me yesterday? To hear my side of the story? That's bollocks. He wanted to hear all the bits you left out."   
  
"How can you say I'm dour? You've only been here a few hours."   
  
"He told me enough. You think I don't know you, sire? Sunnydale wasn't that long ago."   
  
Angel looked at him sharply at the mention of Sunnydale. Spike looked away and went to fetch his duster. Angel followed him with his eyes.   
  
"So, you and your soul, huh?" he said when Spike turned around.   
  
Spike laughed sadly.   
  
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Who'd have thought?"   
  
"You should have come here."   
  
"Yeah, I know." Spike conceded. "Where are my fucking cigarettes?" he added angrily, searching his pockets again.   
  
Angel gently took the coat from him and slipped his hand into the inside pocket.   
  
"Here," he said, drawing out a new pack.   
  
"Thanks," muttered Spike, ripping off the wrapping and opening it up. He tore open the pack and lit up quickly.   
  
"Welcome," said Angel.   
  
Spike smoked anxiously.   
  
"You and a son? Now there's one for the books."   
  
Angel gave a melancholy laugh.   
  
"It's already in so many books I can't believe I didn't know long before."   
  
"Little prophecy boy."   
  
"Yeah."   
  
"Bright kid, too."   
  
"You think so?"   
  
"Yeah," said Spike, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. He frowned and stubbed it out in the ashtray. "Knew to bring me here, didn't he?" Spike picked up the last of the blood in his glass and drank it down. He wiped his mouth in his hand and licked his fingers. "Funny how you get to like it," he said quietly.   
  
"Yeah," agreed Angel, taking a slow step towards Spike. "Funny how you can fool yourself that your fangs aren't itching."   
  
"For something to bite into," finished Spike, watching Angel walk.   
  
The lobby was silent except for Angel's quiet footsteps.   
  
"William," he whispered.   
  
"Don't," said Spike, backing away. "Please don't"   
  
Angel paused. Spike looked at him with suddenly haggard eyes.   
  
"I can't," he continued. "I can't do this with you, not if you're just going to leave again after. I've been left just too often."   
  
"I won't leave. It's my home." Angel took another step. "And William, I can't not. You're here."   
  
The world slowed down. Angel walked towards Spike with certain steps, glowing darkly in the dimness. Spike inhaled involuntarily. Freeze frame as Angel's face came within inches of his own, dark eyes glinting with something unseen in a century.   
  
It was not love he saw, though he believed it too was there.   
  
And then Angel kissed him, slowly at first, gently, tenderly. Soft kisses against his sensitive lips, becoming more urgent now. And despite himself, Spike found himself kissing Angel back, at first uncertainly, but then more hungrily as his hands snaked around Angel's hips, pressing their bodies closer. Angel whimpered softly against his skin as he held Spike's head in his powerful hands.   
  
But Spike pushed him away.   
  
"No," he rasped. "No." The taste in his mouth. The same after all this time.   
  
"Spike," said Angel throatily, attempting to hold him in his arms again.   
  
"No," said Spike. He began to laugh bitterly. "'S kinda funny," he said, running the back of his hand over his mouth. "If you think we can do this, then I know we can't."   
  
"Why?" Angel looked caught between fury and heartbreak. "Why can't we?"   
  
"I don't want you if you're not afraid of losing it." Spike took another step away, and laughed acidly again. "There's just so much irony, I think I'm going to rust."   
  
"Oh, God, William!" snarled Angel. "William, don't be an idiot! Do you think if I was still cursed I could even hold you and kiss you and not be in danger of losing my soul again?"   
  
Spike's vaguely manic laughter faded. His eyes froze blue.   
  
"You're not… cursed anymore, then?"   
  
Angel shook his head and moved again towards Spike. This time he did not back away.   
  
"But how? Why?"   
  
"Spike!" said Angel sternly. "Not the time for conversation!" And with that he growled and pushed Spike roughly against a marble pillar and crushed him against it, kissing him again with a renewed fervour. "Oh, William," he whispered into his ear, pressing the weight of his body against him. "You're not going anywhere."   
  
Spike pulled back and looked into Angel's dark and burning eyes.   
  
"But you would," he said. "You would lose it, with me?"   
  
Angel ran his fingers over Spike's face, gently tracing patterns on his skin. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over his full lips.   
  
"I would," he said. "I promise I would. Don't leave."   
  
Spike said nothing, but took Angel's hair forcefully in hand and brought his mouth to his own again. Angel wrapped his arms around Spike and picked him up, still kissing him fiercely. He turned them around and took a few steps towards the stairs. Spike broke the kiss and put his feet down, smiling now, mischievously. He ran his hands down Angel's arms and took the large hands in his own.   
  
"Do you remember, sire? That first night?"   
  
Angel smiled at the flirting.   
  
"Mmm," he said. "I remember."   
  
"Good," said Spike, turning with a gleaming eye. "I take it your bedroom's this way?"   
  
Angel held his hand tightly and ran. He dragged Spike upstairs.   
  
..._This fic continues, but I think I would be banned for at least a week if the fanfiction.net PTB read it. So, if you want the smut, please follow instructions below. Sorry about the extra bother, I hope it's worth it. :) S/A smut? Sure it is. *g*   
  
ff.net does not like me putting a url here, apparently, because every time I do so, it's gone when i upload the html document. So please:  
1. Go to my user profile by clicking on my name  
2. And go to my website listed there, the coffee-at-midnight one.  
Again, sorry about the hassle, but ff.net is so damn finicky.  
Thank you all. _   



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